


An Old Wives' Tale

by trustjack



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Ancient History, Asexual Solas, Concept Art Solas, Dalish Elves, Elvhen Language, Exalted Plains, F/M, Implied Relationships, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Original Character(s), Off-screen Relationship(s), Original Character(s), Slave Hunters, Slavery, Slaves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 07:52:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9169426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustjack/pseuds/trustjack
Summary: Solas catches Lavellan lying on a statue of the Dread Wolf and looking at the stars. He contemplates telling her. She, of course, is completely unaware.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I used my OC Valanthriel Lavellan and reference her original history which includes Clan Lavellan, but is not exclusive to it.

_"Those eyes of yours,_  
could swallow stars,  
galaxies and universes.  
What hope did I ever have?"

      The stars twinkled brightly in the clear night sky, not fog nor a drop of cloud anywhere in sight. The wind carried leaves, gently on its back, the world quieted and softened as peaceful breaths collided with each other in the darkness, sending dreamers on their way to the Fade, and dwarves to whatever lay coiled deep within their minds. The Dalish elf laying, pleasantly, underneath the constellations in the stars, had often wondered what occurred during sleep for their stony compatriots, but she had never had any time to research the matter. She supposed it was for the best, but it was hard to settle the knots in her stomach as she thought of the reasons why she never had any time.  
      There had never been a period in Valanthriel’s life when she could sit back, watch the stars and remember the old elven tales her father used to tell her before bedtime. Clan Lavellan had repeated the stories – but they weren’t the same, they didn’t exaggerate like he had, they didn’t add bits and pieces of their daily lives into the stories, they didn’t speak with the same voice or hold her hand when she feared for the lives of the ordinary elves the Creators took vengeance upon.  
      Valanthriel allowed a soft sigh to leave her lips as she glanced back into the vastness of space above her head, her fingers twirling with the strained strings of her robes. The images of the clan which ran rampant through her mind reminded of her of the tragedy of where they were currently operating, of where she was laying. _Dirthavaren_ – The Exalted Plains.  
      Once, Valanthriel had visited here with her brother, Cian, whilst they had been running from Tevene slave-hunters – they had made their home in one of the abandoned caves, huddling for warmth as they dared not to create a fire. Valanthriel had wept that night, for her lost home, for her people. She had often heard the stories of the Exalted March, read the accounts of what the Dirth was left to be… But she had never been prepared for the bones she felt as her feet graced the soil, for the stench of death that permeated the air, still, seven hundred years later, for the memories and thinning in the Veil left behind by the pain and heartbreak of The People as they fell.  
      The melancholy still hung in the air tonight.  
      She thought she could see Elgar’nan watching her in the eyes of the stars, she wondered whether he and the Creators would be proud of her now… Dallying with a human Inquisition, laying on a statue of Fen’Harel, stampeding on the lands their people burned on…  
      She thought she knew the answer.  
      “What are you doing up there?”  
      Valanthriel startled, almost losing her balance, but managing by grabbing the moss and vines tightly, the green gathering behind her fingernails. She released her grip on the shrubs as she shifted her gaze to Solas, who stood, silent and tall, below her.  
      “Watching the stars.” She replied curtly, trying to recover into a comfortable position once again. She tried her damndest not to glance down, where she knew Solas to be staring up at her, his eyes keen, hands folded behind his back, his brown, soft dreadlocks falling across his shoulder.  
      Solas took a step closer, his hand reaching out from behind himself, his fingers almost grazed the stone wolf’s shoulder, but he seemed to recoil from the idea and he lay his hand back by his side. Valanthriel watched him as she did all things, with intent and curiosity, her gold eyes taking in his form, jutting out against the shadows of the campfire. She moved her gaze back to the stars when he turned to look at her.  
      “But why there?” He asked, his voice containing that sameness of placid neutrality and yet, somehow, wild intrigue and an edge of amusement. “It is raw stone. It cannot be comfortable.”  
      Valanthriel let the corners of her lips lift, “The moss is here, and the vines. Much more comfortable than you’d expect.”  
      Solas said nothing, allowing the silence to fall over them like snow, shivering their shoulders with softness and cold. He took another step towards her, and the statue, this time his fingertips caressed the statue lightly, as if it were a lake and he afraid to cause a ripple. Valanthriel hated, and loved, how precise his movements were, and how careful his demeanour. It was as if he were afraid to reveal the secrets of a thousand past lives if he allowed himself to relax.  
      Finally, he broke his gaze with the wolf and returned to look at Valanthriel, his eyes still keen, still controlled – but softened. “But it is Fen’Harel…” Solas trailed off, his voice an octave lower than before. “Do the Dalish not regard him as unholy? I had assumed you would consider it as blasphemous or sacrilegious.”  
      Valanthriel almost laughed, stifling her giggles with a cough. The elf opened her mouth to speak, but delayed, observing Solas with inquisitive eyes, her lips curling in the corners. He looked indignant at her badly hidden laughter, standing straighter than before, though she knew he would not relent unless she answered, what she found to be, his silly questions.  
      “ _Let us revere the dreaded Dread Wolf, who will swallow our soul and drink the hundred oceans of our world, eat the thousand fruit of our lands, kill the million people of our hearts. Let us fear the claws he sheathes, the fangs he bears. Let us fear, and pray, and beg, for mercy is his only tithe._ ” Valanthriel recounted the text she had found in one of her master’s old tomes. Solas’s ears twitched ever-so-slightly as Valanthriel finished. He must recognise the tale, or perhaps, he simply believes she is reciting heathen poetry. “The Dalish have a thousand rules and no Clan follows the same ones. I learned from that story that Fen’Harel must have been merciful, ‘ _all stories are written by the victors_ ’.” Val mused, a finger on her bottom lip. “So I’m sure he’ll forgive me for laying on his statue. Don’t you think?”  
      Solas’s lips twitched upwards, his gaze softening as he watched her from the ground. “I’m certain it is already forgiven.”  
      “Well then,” Valanthriel replied, sitting up and shifting to the side. She patted the space next to her inexplicably, and beckoned Solas with her other hand, a mischievous, comfortable smile settling on her face as she watched for his reply. “I’ll tell you old Dalish tales about the constellations and you can lecture me on how wrong we are.”  
      “I do not lecture.” Solas retorted, his brows furrowing.  
       Nevertheless, he made to move towards the edge of the statue where a chip in the stone created somewhat of a foothold, but his hand hovered inches from the wolf’s shoulder, his eyes uncertain, his lips slightly parted. Valanthriel narrowed her eyes, scrunching her nose as she watched him.  
      “What’s wrong?” She asked suddenly.  
      Solas shivered visibly, looking back at her with a disoriented gleam in his eye. Valanthriel had never seen him visibly shaken before – what was it about this statue that was causing him to act this way?  
      “Solas?” She asked, inching towards him across the Dread Wolf’s spacious back. Val reached her hand down to him, palm open, a concerned smile sitting on her lips. “Don’t tell me the day’s journey has depleted your energy so much so that you can’t climb up a small statue?” Valanthriel jested, visibly comforted when Solas let slip a low chuckle and placed his hand in hers.  
      He placed his foot in the gap between the marble and stone and hoisted himself up and over the statue’s back, with some help from Valanthriel. “Of course, not. Do you take me for a sluggard?” His tone was insulted, but the smile curling the corners of lips broke through his disguise.  
      Valanthriel let loose a laugh, and fell back against the Dread Wolf’s neck, stretching, finding the spot that she had left seconds before. But it was not until Solas lay down beside her, his arm snaking around her waist, that she truly felt comfort. The redhead snuggled in closer to Solas’s side, nuzzling her face into the side of his woolly pajamas. She could hear Solas sigh contentedly above her, which brought a light to her eyes.  
      Val looked up momentarily at the man who seemed to have all the answers she’d been looking for her whole life in the palm of his hand, and tapped his chest with her finger, that same stupidly-in-love smile still stuck to her face.  
       “Those six there,” She began, her hand trailing from Solas’s chest to the stars above their heads, “Are Andruil’s bow, and if you look a little to the left you can make out Andruil herself, battling Mythal during her periodic stay in the Voids –“ She paused when she saw Solas roll his eyes, but when she looked at him expectantly, the bitterness faded, replaced by adoration.  
      “I apologise.” Solas muttered, laying a chaste kiss on Valanthriel’s lips. “Anything coming from your mouth is a treasured tale to me.”  
      Valanthriel giggled, pecking his cheek, before resolving to pointing to another circle of stars. “And those are from a time before Ghilan’nain had risen to the holy rank…” She continued speaking, reciting tales of old that were not entirely correct, but embellished with her own personal odds and favours.  
      The stars, however, mattered not to Solas, who watched only Valanthriel, his eyes lit brighter than any heavenly body.


End file.
